


In the end they make their meanings

by laughingpineapple



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Future Fic, Good luck charm fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 08:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10963062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: In the end there will be windswept mornings and symbols that have come too late, expired omens turned into a new lexicon.





	In the end they make their meanings

Their bodies meet in the shape of an old mark of misfortune. Six arms trace fearsome arcs on the blankets; their fingers are wedges dug into the mattress, scoring the years of faded subterranean calendars. There are three dark planets where their heads are resting, joined in a terrible orbit.

 

Dale feels it. These ill dots and lines are etched in the soil of his dream. But the forest he walks in burned down long ago, all that's left of it tonight is an ashen wasteland under a coat of stars. Nothing grows here that could be corrupted, not anymore. He lets a handful of cursed earth falls through his fingers, follows his two fixed lights to the horizon, and leaves it behind.

 

Albert knows it. The moment he opens his eyes to reach for the bottle of water he keeps by the bedside, he recognises the jarring heap of signs that kept reappearing in top secret scraps of paper, LPA shit, petroglyphs from Nevada. Fancy that, he mutters, it takes an awful lot of theoretical monkeys mashing away at typewriters to make a Shakespeare, and just three actual assholes to recreate federal secrets without even trying. He leans forward to kiss Harry's curls and wrap his hand around Coop's wrist, just for a moment. Their warmth, their smell, their heartbeats are the only mysteries worthy of note.

 

Harry snores through it all. His sleep is sound and dark, disturbed only, now and then, by flashes of his waking life, barely rearranged: potatoes turning crisp and golden in the oven; the snout of a friendly dog; Albert's mandatory string of complaints continuing through a kiss; the old clock ticking in the silent room, out of sync with the real clock in the real room outside his dream; Coop marveling at aging wood and turning it into a profession of love for aging bones. Tonight it's a warm darkness, comforting behind his eyelids, reaching out to the tip of his toes, a circulation of an energy he won't remember in the morning and wouldn't know how to name anyway, any word would stick against the roof of his mouth, but no less real for it. In this joining of limbs that makes their sleeping shapes into something more than the sum of their parts, Harry finally belongs.

 

 

 

If the mountains called today, rustling their trees with a northern wind, pushing it down their valleys until it made it to the cottage's porch, heavy now with mists and resin and the echo of waterfalls (filled with longing, as echoes are, and regret), then that last whirling gust would be drowned out by the bubbling of the coffee pot. The blankets still bear the mark of their presence. It means they were there, that their bodies met.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to them, and to all these years of wondering and not knowing. See you in the trees...


End file.
